


in the end, there were three

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Support, F/M, Fred is dead and I'm still not over it, Lee Jordan appreication, Platonic Relationships, it shows in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lee has always been there.For both of them.





	in the end, there were three

**Author's Note:**

> this has like ... polyamorous vibes
> 
> it was originally gonna be lee/angie/George but I decided against it midway
> 
> interpret it how you like tho!!!   
> are lee and george gay for each other? up to you. is angie in love with both of these losers? you decide

“Are you okay?” 

Angelina knows that voice. How could she not? Lee Jordan’s voice has been a constant commentary for seven years straight, his joy not once faltering. That’s why now, as Lee croaks out that question and barely even manages it, she wants to burst into a fresh wave of tears.

Instead, she nods vigorously.

“You sure, Ange?” he adds. “Nobody would blame you if … if you weren’t. You know. After everything.”

The celebration died down an hour ago. Now grief has settled in the air, heavy and suffocating, pulling the soaring spirits far away from where they should be. Some celebrate the victory, but some … some are sat by their dead loved ones, crying over a body. Half of the dead haven’t even been recovered yet. The destruction around them is so terrible that she refuses to look down - what if one of those bodies littering the great hall is one of her friends? What if she looks down and sees Katie, or Alicia, sprawled out and wide-eyed?

“I’m okay,” says Angelina finally. She looks at him and forces a smile. It’s strained and actually makes her look even sadder, stretching out her bruised and bleeding skin in a way it simply won’t stretch. “Are you?”

He nods, which slows to a stop fairly quickly. It’s a lie. So was her response. They both know that, and that’s why Lee squeezes her hand with his own, a comforting response.  _ I’m here. I’m always here. _

Each breath sends a sharp pain down her side, and she’s not sure whether it’s an injury or not. It could just be strain. Years on the Quidditch pitch could not have trained her for this.

“Angie,” mumbles Lee, and his voice is just that tone that freezes her blood. She knows what he is about to say. There have been rumours buzzing around,  _ the death of a Weasley.  _ Angelina never had the stomach to ask which one. She feared the reply. But Lee’s eyes, tired and anguished, answer that question.

“I know,” she replies softly, voice much steadier than she’d expected. Inside, her emotions are wrecked, a chaotic march of grief and anger. Somewhere there’s a  small sliver of pride, pride which resembles the warmth she felt when winning a Quidditch game, the same euphoric feeling as holding the Quidditch cup in her arms. Yet Angelina never remembers feeling this lost after a match. She knew where she belonged afterwards. There was a common room waiting for her, a bed waiting for her.

Now the only thing waiting for her is an empty house and a whole load of grief.

“You know?”

“I heard. People were talking, and I -” Her voice is beginning to wobble. Tears burn at her eyes. “Is it true? Is he …”

There are many words she could use here. Gone. Dead. Killed. But none appeal. Angelina just lets her sentence trail off into nothingness, thinking of his body, of  _ Fred _ . His eyes were always so bright and filled with spirit. What they would like like wide and cold, Angelina doesn’t know. She doesn’t  _ want  _ to know. The image of Fred Weasley she would like to keep is one of him chuckling along with George in Potions, or throwing paper at the back of her head, or asking her out to Hogsmeade when they were fifteen. She had said no. Now, she wishes that she’d said yes, gotten to snort with laughter in the Three Broomsticks whilst he cracked some stupid jokes.

That all seems so far away now.

“Yeah,” Lee says weakly. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Angelina instinctively reaches forwards to wipe it away with her thumb, and ends up pulling him into a hug. He smells disgusting, like blood and burning rubber, but Angelina knows there’s nothing much more pleasant about the way she smells. The last shower she had must have been weeks ago.

Lee doesn’t hesitate to hug back. His arms are long and warm, altogether suffocating, but comforting.

“Is he okay?” Angelina says into his shoulder. “Are any of them … are they …”

“No,” he interjects, saving her from stumbling over her words. Wordlessly thanking him by tightening her grip around his neck, Angelina lets the tears fall once again. She’s cried already, at least twice. “They will be, though.”

“Pain is temporary,” mumbles Angelina into his shoulder. He knows what she’s talking about -  that time when she had broken her wrist in second year Quidditch practice, and Lee had helped her to the hospital wing whilst reminding her that  _ pain is temporary.  _ At the time, Angelina had told him to shut up.

She can’t even begin to imagine George’s anguish. Fred had been his other half for his entire life, the person who would constantly be by his side. Angelina can’t ever remember them doing anything separately. Every word of theirs seemed to be intertwined - whatever sentence one of them started, the other would finish, and then they’d laugh together.

Eventually, Lee pulls back. He is crying too, silently. The same can’t be said for Angelina - her sobs are messy, threatening to spill from her lips, and she chokes out a quick  _ thank you _ as Lee squeezes her hand once again.

They link arms all the way to where the bodies are laid out. It’s revolting. Terrifying. Angelina’s tears are making everything blurry, but she can easily make out the cluster of ginger hair in the middle. The two oddities, Harry and Hermione, stand to the side, Hermione clutching at Ron’s sleeve whilst she cries.

“You sure you want to see him?”

“I have to.” She sniffs loudly, finally releasing his arm.“I have to say goodbye.”

Lee just nods and trails behind her, looking lost. He’s already seen Fred’s lifeless body, laid out on display for everybody to see, everybody to ogle at.  _ Oh look, that Weasley boy! What a shame. I liked him _ .

And, as she’d predicted, Fred looks nothing like Fred. There is no colour to his face, there’s no heat coming from his body, there’s no grin or laugh or anything that is even remotely typical to the Fred Weasley she remembers.

Ron is the first one to notice her, but George is the first one to hug her. He pushes past Charlie and Bill and wraps her in a warm, tight hug, gripping her shirt like he never wants to let go. Angelina isn’t much shorter than him, but she still pulls herself up on tiptoes, letting him sniffle brokenly into her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. Meant for nobody but George. “I’m so … god, I’m …  _ sorry _ , George.”

Now she’s sobbing. Every single sob feels like it’s being ripped from her spent body. She’s so tired. She’s not had a single good night of sleep for what feels like years. Even though it’s all over, there’s no resting. Grieving is a long process.

George doesn’t let go for a while. Not that Angelina minds. She just cries into his shoulder for minutes, or hours, or however long he holds her for. 

Mrs. Weasley reaches forwards next. Her face is red and swollen, a pained smile cracking her sombre expression as she opens her arms.

Angelina attempts to say  _ sorry _ again, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. Mrs. Weasley just says,  _ “It’s not your fault. It’s not any of our fault.” _ When she finally draws away, Mrs. Weasley looks ten years older.

Angelina kneels down beside Fred’s body, a sob catching in her throat as she presses a hand to his cheek. He’s freezing. Thankfully, his eyes have been closed, so there’s no heavy emptiness staring her down, but this still feels immensely wrong. Half of her is expecting Fred to crack open one eye and grin.  _ Gotcha _ , he would say, elbowing her. Then he’d crack some moronic joke, teasing her about how she fell for it.

It never comes. 

There’s something heavy on her shoulder. It’s a hand. Angelina doesn’t know quite who, but it doesn’t do anything to ease the pain splintering through her chest.

* * *

 

 At the funeral, Angelina stands next to Lee, her hand intertwined with his. People mistake them for a couple, and neither have the heart to say _no, we’re just really torn up about the death of our best friend,_ so they just keep quiet. It doesn’t matter what rumours are spread. All that matters is the fact there’s a casket at the front, and in that casket is the unmoving body of Fred Weasley.

George stands at the front with the family, barely holding it together. Angelina sees the telltale shake of his hands as he balls them into fists, and she doesn’t miss the pain flashing through his eyes. Over the past few weeks, he’s cried more tears than Angelina thought possible. Especially for somebody as upbeat as George. He spent quite a lot of time on her sofa, just grieving, unable to do much else. Not many words had been exchanged throughout that time. The most she could say was  _ would you like a cup of tea? _ Anything more than that, she would break down, her rubbed-raw skin burning with each tear trickling from her eyes, and honestly, she’s surprised her cheeks haven’t worn away. 

The funeral service drags. It’s awful. A few people say some kind words about him, but none of them knew Fred. The words  _ bright  _ and  _ funny  _ are thrown around carelessly a few times, as well is  _ a waste of a young life _ . 

They had heard of him, obviously. Everyone had. They knew he was upbeat and fun, but none of them  _ knew  _ him like Angelina does, or Lee does. And definitely not like George does.

But there’s no way anybody who knew him like that would be able to brave speaking. Even though she stands silent for most of the service, she still wants to burst out into ugly sobs. Lee’s emotional state is similar. He doesn’t cry, but doesn’t say anything either, and when it comes to Lee, silence is a frightening thing. He just remains a solid presence by her shoulder.

And afterwards, her, Lee and George drink Firewhisky until their vision blurs, falling asleep in various spots around Angelina’s living room. She sprawls out on the carpet with a few pillows tucked under her chin. Lee takes the armchair. George lies on the sofa, sleeping restlessly with his knees to his chin, like he cannot be vulnerable, not even in sleep. When Angelina first spots him like that, she wants to lean over and pull his arms from his knees, hug him for the millionth time and remind him that the war is over. Nobody wants to hurt him. Not anymore.

“Must be horrible.” Lee’s voice is scratched raw. It’s one of the first things he’s said since yesterday.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, not wanting to wake George. His sleep comes in bursts. He will wake himself up soon, panting and gasping because of a nightmare, darkening the omnipresent circles underneath his eyes.

“We all lost a lot. But …”

He doesn’t need to continue. Angelina understands. They may have lost a lot, but at least their lives will retain some sense of normalcy. For George, nothing will ever be the way it once was, and he will have to adapt to a entirely new life now …

A life with her. And a life with Lee.

“We have to be there.”

Lee notices the  _ we  _ and nods, staring at the sleeping figure of his best friend with some type of regret in his eyes.

“I’m always here, Angelina,” he says softly. “For both of you.”

“I know.”

They all wake up several hours later. None of them talk about the nightmares.

* * *

 

**Five years later.**

 

At the memorial, George holds her hand and cries. Lee clutches his other elbow, a tether to the present - without him, George could fall, and Angelina isn’t strong enough to pull him up. Not by herself. 

But Lee is here, a physical and emotional lifeline.

That night, Lee sleeps round. They sleep on the sofa, all three of them, Angelina pressed against George’s chest and her hand gripping Lee’s. To any outsiders, they must look strange - a couple and their best friend asleep on a narrow sofa.

Lee is a secure and unmoving part of their life. Lee is their best friend - not George’s best friend, not Angelina’s best friend, but  _ their  _ best friend.

“Angie,” Lee says, somehow knowing she is still awake. Perhaps she’s thinking too loud.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

She turns her head a little so she can see him. “Thank you for what?”

“For … I don’t know. Being here.”

“I’m always here, Lee,” she murmurs.

Softly, he replies, “I know.”

And when they wake up, there are no nightmares.

 


End file.
